Season of Glory (39 page)

From several paces away, Tressa kneeled before her with her hands on her thighs.
“We are here to help and heal. Not to destroy.”

Vidar kneeled beside her and gazed at the woman, brow furrowed with concern. “Long
has this city been heavy with the weight of the dark, woman. You yourself bear the
burden of many demons. But we have come to bring the light.” He lifted his hands
to the woman, as did Tressa. The rest of us laid a hand on Tressa and Vidar's shoulders
or did the same as they had, raising our hands toward the fortune-teller as if covering
her, blessing her.

“No!” screamed the woman, falling back as if our action brought her physical pain.
And I glimpsed the bent, grotesque forms of many, clinging to her back, her neck,
her side. “No!” she cried again, writhing now on the ground, tearing at her clothes.
“Leave us!”

“We have come to claim you,” Vidar continued. “To destroy those who hold you captive.”

“To set you free,” Tressa whispered, her face and tone reverent. “In the name of
the One who was, and is, and is to come.”

“In the name of the One who was, and is, and is to come,” we repeated.

The woman gasped, grew rigid, every limb and digit stretched taut. Then she convulsed,
ramming up and down until I feared she'd render herself unconscious. Tressa
scrambled
forward to cradle her head—keeping her from injuring herself—praying all the while.
The rest of us prayed too, each in our own way.
Free her, Maker. Make her yours.
Drive away these dark ones. Fill her with your light.

And then she abruptly relaxed, every bit of her body calming. I felt the darkness
recede and slide out the door, like an inky tide. The woman blinked heavily, her
brown eyes gradually clearing. Vidar was grinning and reached for her hand. “Rise,
sister. You are free of the dark ones who have ruled you for far too long.”

She looked up at him, and I knew the swelling wonder and gratitude within her as
my own. Tears fell down my cheeks as she took Vidar's hand and rose. When we had
entered, we'd seen a haggard and wild woman. Now she was serene, not beautiful in
an outward sense, but so clearly beautiful from a that it took my breath away.
This
was true beauty, I thought. Light indwelling what was once a dark shell.
This
was
life.

“Use this mouth,” Vidar said gently, lightly touching her lips in a blessing, “to
speak of what has transformed you. Use these hands,” he said, lifting hers in his,
“to help others. You are the Maker's, and he is yours. You will find continued life
and light by remaining in relationship with him.”

She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking
at him and Tressa and the rest of us. “Bless you.”

“May the Maker bless and keep you,” Niero said and then turned to go, expecting the
rest of us to follow. Reluctantly, we did. Much in me wanted to remain, to know more
of this woman and why the Maker wanted her freed. I knew from our last visit that
this city held hundreds like her, and I wondered why she was set apart. But the answer
would have to wait for another day.

As we ran down the street, we noticed many of the city's people had begun to gather
alongside the road, kneeling in submission. Some begged forgiveness. Others praised
our arrival. Many had tears on their faces. But we didn't have long to tarry. We
knew we had to get to the castle for some reason, and quickly. We passed by the people
who had surrendered—tenfold our own number—touching heads and hands, praying for
them as we moved on. Later, we could divide up and reach them all, but now, the tension
gathering in all of us told us one thing:
do not let your guard down.
I likened the
urge to a crazy itch, or the desire to scrub away some dark spot from an otherwise
pristine, white surface. An infection needed cleansing in order for it to heal.

We rounded the last corner, and there it was before us. The towering castle, with
its elegant turrets and windows. I think we expected Sethos and the Pacifican guards
to begin firing at us from their assigned positions above. My armband had grown colder,
and the Maker was definitely leading us inward, but what we discovered confused us.

There was no one on guard.

The doors were wide open.

Behind us, some of the city's people had followed—more than fifty, many of them very
young. Niero turned and growled at them. “Be away from here! It is dangerous!”

Some scattered immediately. Others backed away a bit but hovered, curiosity beating
out any sense of risk. We knew well what captivated their interest, regardless of
the danger. Why would the palace be open? It felt like a trap. And yet this was exactly
where we had to be.

“Gather around,” Niero said. We pulled into a tight circle, heads huddled together.
“You know what is ahead, just as I do. Within those castle gates, we are bound to
encounter new
ways for the enemy to challenge us. It is the reason they leave the
gates open—they're confident they can bring us down if they can just get us inside.
This is a battle we must fight, but we must do it alongside the Maker, not on our
own. Do you understand me?” He paused to look around, lingering on Keallach and me.
“Do not let your gift lead you—let the Maker lead you. Call upon him constantly.
Put him first, not yourselves. We will stay together whatever comes, because together,
we are strongest. And Knights, do not get separated from your Remnants. Kapriel and
Keallach, Azarel and I will be by your side without fail.”

We all nodded and straightened. Wordlessly, Keallach took the lead. He, of all of
us, knew the castle best. We had some experience with the kitchens and large meeting
spaces and hallways, but something told me we wouldn't find our enemies there. They
were pulling us in, deeper. Kapriel was a step behind Keallach, to his right. Azarel
was beside him. Niero was on Keallach's left.

Five paces from the door, curved sword in hand, Niero bade us to stop while he went
ahead, cautiously approaching the open doorway and peering inward. When he had cleared
it, he gestured for the rest of us to follow.

As soon as we entered and paused, we heard it—someone singing, from far away. The
tune sounded familiar, but I could not make out the words from this distance. My
skin prickled, as again, we saw no one. Only heard the haunting voice, carried along
the marble floors and plastered walls to our ears.

We passed the grand reception rooms, then the sprawling dining room where I had first
encountered Maximillian Jala. And it was in passing that room, seeing the sun glint
through the windows, that I remembered where I had first heard the
song that was
being sung ahead of us. We could make out some of the words now, and I knew that
the girl had been singing for some time. Her voice was clearly strained, hoarse,
giving out through some phrases.

Even before we turned the last corner to see her halfway down the hallway, I knew
who it would be.

The same girl who had been singing in the courtyard the first time we were here.

The one who seemed to be singing to me, aware of my arrival when no one else had
known yet. I'd gone to the castle windows as if called by her voice, and she had
looked right up at me as she sang.

“And upon the field, and upon the plain,
The Ailith rose where they were slain,
And forevermore, whene're she sang,
He wept and wept and wept again.”

When she saw us, her eyes widened with a combination of terror and yet also relief.
Her voice faltered, and her next lyric trailed away. A man stood beside her, a sword
tip held to her throat.

Lord Maximillian Jala.

I'd tried to kill him. I must have nearly been successful—there'd been so much blood
that day in the palace. And yet now he stood before us, and he knew I'd tried to
kill him.

“Welcome,” he said, with his smooth, handsome grin. “Come in, my friends. This singer
has a fresh refrain to her song that she wishes to share with you.” He pressed the
tip of his sword a bit deeper, and a trickle of blood began winding its way down
the girl's throat and through her cleavage. “Go on, my darling,” he crooned to her,
as if she was a songbird to be coaxed with silvered words, rather than a woman
held
captive. When she remained silent, he turned toward her, stroked her cheek with his
free hand, and then let his fingers drift through her blood, smearing it across her
chest. “Now,” he growled, no measure of cajoling remaining in his tone. “From the
beginning.”

She began to warble as he turned back toward us, watching us approach, his eyes mostly
on Keallach and then me. When our eyes met, he rubbed his bloody fingers together
and lifted them to his nostrils to inhale. I knew what he was doing—reminding me
of the moment when we'd been captured in this castle. The moment he had actually
tasted my blood and looked like he wanted more. My pulse quickened as bile rose in
the back of my throat.

But could it be that we were merely to hear this song and face this lone man? It
seemed impossible that we were called here for this. Was it just a distraction? We
all looked about, wondering about hidden passageways, possibly full of our enemies,
ready to pour out around us. We stopped, giving each other enough room to move in
case that happened. And yet we remained rooted to the spot, listening to the song
as the pale girl—sweat dripping down her face and neck, mingling with her blood—finished
her task.

“For once the king loved, and once he called,
But weakened, he fell upon the wall.
Even as Knight and Remnant, one by one,
Breathed their last and knew the gall.”

Knew the gall.
The gall of what? As the last note hung in the air, Maximillian dropped
his sword, and the girl slumped in a dead faint. Niero only narrowly caught her before
her head hit the marble tiles. But Lord Jala had grabbed hold of
Keallach's wrist
and swung him wide, ramming him into one wall. I heard the crack of a bone—his collarbone?
Shoulder?—and Keallach gasped. I did too, reeling from the surprise and anger and
pain I felt from him, ten paces away.

But Maximillian didn't relent; he dragged Keallach back to where the girl had been
singing, where the floor had now collapsed into an open trapdoor.

“No!” I cried, knowing we were too late, even as we charged forward. Both disappeared
below.

The floor-tile doorway clicked shut just as Azarel reached it, a second too late.
Madly, she felt the perimeter of it. She looked up to Kapriel. “Where does this lead?”

He looked stunned, face blank. “I don't know,” he stammered. “I don't remember that
being there at all.”

Azarel rose, face grim as she looked to Niero then back to Kapriel. “
Think
, Kapriel.
Do you know how to get below? Is there a dungeon below? There has to be a foundation
level to this massive structure, at least.”

“I was only here as a child,” he said, frowning and shaking his head, as if trying
to reach for a memory. “And I don't think I was ever below this floor.”

“That's where they lie in wait for us,” Niero said grimly. “Why we can sense them
but cannot see them. They mean to do battle with us in the depths.”

I swallowed hard. The whole castle above—with all its beauty—reeked of evil in my
nostrils, the place always sending shivers of warning skittering across my skin.
But going below, to her very foundation?

I steeled myself. I was with Ronan. The rest of the Ailith. Our friends. And the
Maker. He had called us here.

Together, we would see it through.

CHAPTER
37

KEALLACH

T
hey shoved a hood over my head and dragged me forward, yanking at my injured arm
until
I
saw bright spots of color, even in the dark. I tried to summon the strength to cast
them aside, but they seemed to know my injury weakened me in other ways. With the
constant pressure on my arm I could barely get a full breath, let alone move them
from me.

A man cruelly pulled my wrists together behind me and swiftly chained them, then
pressed me forward, a hand on my shoulder in an excruciating hold that made me eager
to do anything he asked of me. Indeed, I tried to anticipate his direction before
we turned corners in order to not add any extra pressure at all.

I knew from the earthy, damp smell that we were beneath the castle, near the dungeons,
but heading farther west, to the vast underground storehouse that held inky space
and soaring arches and crate upon crate of supplies.

It had been a place where Sethos had favored bringing me during our long training
sessions. But it had been my least favorite spot in all of Castle Vega. I could
smell the tang of torch oil and glimpsed patches of light behind my hood. I knew
there were hundreds of places for our enemies to hide, lying in wait for my brothers
and sisters, who would undoubtedly come after me.

I was yanked to a halt and heard the clank of another chain, then I gasped again
as my wrists were lifted and the chain grew taut above me. I cried out, in spite
of myself, pain shooting through my shoulder and seeming to pierce my temple like
an arrow, over and over. I fell to my knees with my arms wrenched at a sharp angle
behind me, lifted until a man growled, “Enough.”

He pulled the hood from my head, and I blinked as my vision swam.

I'd expected Sethos—had felt the chill of my arm cuff become ice—but it was Max,
backed by the remainder of my Council. “Welcome home,
Highness
,” he sneered, bending
to pat my cheek. He straightened, hands on hips, as I surveyed the rest. Two sat
on crates behind him, Fenris tearing off a stray nail, Daivat leaning back against
another crate, leg casually swinging beneath him. Kendric leaned against a pillar,
arms crossed.